


Afterimages

by arts_and_letters



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cooking and other scenes of domesticity, Hannibal Being Hannibal, Hannibal-style domesticity of course, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post Season 3, This is My Design, eventual hurt/comfort, solving murders
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:51:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years after his disappearance, seven years after he was given up for dead, Will Graham returns to Baltimore, Maryland, very much alive. Of course, only Will knows what else he brought back with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftershocks

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon compliant up through the season three finale.

Freddie Lounds of Tattle Crime infamy is the first to break the news, but once the story breaks, it spreads quickly. Local press, national news, even some international papers picked up the headline.

Overnight, people who never before had heard the names were whispering about it in bars and coffee shops, at home, on the streets. They all gossiped and theorized passionately before blithely moving on to another topic of conversation.

The speculations came easily to the thousands who have only heard reports, read stories—true and untrue—about the events, events which had been all but forgotten until now.   After all, seven years is an eternity in the age of the 24-hour news cycle.  

But there are a few people who will never forget what happened seven years ago or any of the moments that led up to that one. 

They will never stop wondering about their part in it all, never stop thinking about the people who lived through it with them, people who have been lost but not forgotten, faces and names burned into their collective memories.

 For those unfortunate few who have been permanently marked—physically, psychically—by those terrible events, the news reverberates through their lives like the aftershock of an earthquake, threatening their already unstable foundations.

It is unexpected, violent, leaving them bruised, battered, and reeling in its wake.

 

 

 

In a small town in the Italian countryside, a blonde woman walks purposefully through the streets, her shoes beating out a steady rhythm on the cobblestones as she makes her way to the market.

 She passes a small cafe, the same cafe she walks by every morning. It has become so familiar that she is hardly even aware of its presence, until the moment when she hears two words, a name, horribly familiar, rising above the general murmur of conversation.

In shock, she stops, mid stride, and turns to the source of the sound.

In fluent Italian, she asks, “What did you just say?” 

The man repeats the words, looking mildly irritated by the interruption.  

She gasps out a hoarse _gr_ _azie_ before she turns around sharply, walking quickly, retracing her steps, not stopping until she reaches her small, sparsely furnished apartment. 

Immediately, she goes to the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and pulls out an almost full bottle of Scotch, which she carries, along with a large glass, into the living room.

She sits heavily onto the sofa, and her eyes stare into the distance, unseeing, as she fills up the glass. With a shaking hand, she brings it to her lips, gulping down the amber liquid as if her life depends on it.

She doesn't stop drinking until she passes out, many hours later, stretched out on the sofa, still dressed, not even bothering to take off her shoes.

 

 

 

Nestled in the mountains of Switzerland, ensconced within the safety of a vast estate, two woman and a young boy are gathered in their kitchen, just like every other weekday morning. 

One woman, dressed in a tailored business suit, is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on black coffee, laptop open. The other woman, clad only in a silk robe, is standing at the kitchen counter preparing lunch for the ten year old boy who is obediently eating cereal at the other end of the table.

Suddenly, the quiet is interrupted by a gasp, and the sound of a mug crashing to the floor, coffee spreading out over the immaculate white tiles.

The woman at the counter turns around quickly when she hears the noise. With confusion which quickly gives way to concern, she takes in the sight of her wife, face frozen, staring at the computer screen.

 Tentatively, she asks, “What’s wrong?”  

The other woman’s eyes are still fixed on the computer screen as she says, hoarsely, “Margot, look at this.”  

With equal parts trepidation and curiosity, Margot moves so that she is looking over Alana’s shoulder. As she starts to read the words on the screen, she lets out an involuntary gasp of her own.

Silently, they stay like this, frozen, until they are broken out of their paralysis by their son asking, curiously, “What’s going on?”  

Without exchanging a single word, just a look, they both silently agree to keep the news a secret, at least for now, maybe forever.

Avoiding the question altogether, Margot says, “Let’s go get you dressed for school.”  

Once they have left the room, Alana reaches for her phone. With a shaking hand, she begins to dial a number that she didn’t even realize she remembered until this very moment. 

  
  
  
  
 

In Baltimore, Maryland, a man sits at his kitchen table, sipping his coffee, alone, as is his morning custom. Now that he's in this limbo of semi-retirement, the days have begun to blur, weekdays and weekends blending together.

But this day—this particular day—will always stand out in his memory. 

The whole house is silent and still, as he sits with the newspaper laid out on the table in front of him. He stares at it without bothering to read the words on the page. 

He doesn’t have to—he already knows exactly what it says.

His cell phone is sitting on the table to the right of the newspaper, face up, and he watches it out of the corner of his eye. As soon as he hears the first beat of the ring tone, he picks it up and answers with sharp, sure words.

 “Hello.”

“Yes, this is Jack Crawford.”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.” 

After hanging up the phone, he immediately grabs his coat, his wallet, and his keys, and then he walks quickly out the front door, slamming it loudly behind him.

Still laying on the table, forgotten, is an almost full mug of coffee, and a newspaper with a headline that reads, in big, bold print— 

**_Will Graham, FBI profiler who caught the Chesapeake Ripper, Returns from the Dead_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, an entire first chapter (well, more of a prologue, really) and no Hannibal or Will. I promise I will remedy that soon! I hope you stick around, because there is going to be plenty of Hannigram action in the coming chapters.
> 
> The next chapter is done, just needs some proofing, so I should get that posted in the next couple of days, although first I need to upload the next chapter for my other Hannigram fic. 
> 
> (I promised myself no more WIPs, but this story was just begging to be told. Seriously, I set out to work on my other story, and instead, this pops into my head, and 10,000 words later, here we are.) 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the opening chapter! Stay tuned for the next installment :)


	2. Specters from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos on the first chapter! I hope you enjoy this second chapter. Fair warning, there are some angsty times ahead.

_The man stands out starkly in the sea of well dressed diplomats and administrative workers as he walks unsteadily into the US embassy, haggard, dressed in ill-fitting clothes. The receptionist fixes him with a skeptical and slightly wary stare, but her tone is detached, almost bored, when she speaks._

_“May I have your name and the purpose of your visit?”_

_At first, he just stares at her blankly, saying nothing. After several minutes have passed without a response she reaches for the telephone receiver, about to call security, when he finally gets out the words._

_"My name is Will Graham, and I want to go home.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
Jack stands outside the door to his office and takes a deep breath, before cautiously opening the door, half expecting to see an empty chair on the other side.   But the chair isn’t empty, and before he can say anything, the other man greets him. 

“Hello, Jack.” 

With genuine warmth, Jack says, “Will, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”

  Jack moves closer to Will, but when he notices the way the other man stiffens at the encroachment, Jack steps back again, instead making his way to the other side of the desk. 

Not sure what to say, but feeling a need to speak, Jack starts with, “You can imagine that this comes as a shock, for all of us.”  

“Yeah, I can imagine.”  
  
  “I thought you were dead. We all thought you were dead.”

When Will doesn’t say anything in response, Jack adds, tentatively, “What happened out there? Where have you been, all these years?”  
  
  Will closes his eyes, tightly, and he scrubs his hands with his face.   Jack continues to wait, until Will finally says, “I can’t do this right now, Jack. I don’t even remember a lot of it, and what I can remember—It’s hard enough being back here, without forcing myself to relive everything.  "

“I understand, and I won’t push you.” 

“Thank you.”

Despite his promise, Jack still pushes, because after all this time, he can't completely lay the subject to rest.

  “There’s only one thing I need to know. One thing that we all need to know.”

  Jack doesn’t elaborate further, and Will doesn’t need him to. 

For the first time since Jack walked through the door, Will makes eye contact and his gaze doesn’t falter, as he says, slowly, “He’s dead, Jack. Hannibal’s dead.”

Jack turns those words over in his mind, letting them sink in. As if he’s still not sure if any part of this conversation is real, Jack says, slowly, “He’s dead, and you’re alive.”

  Will nods, and then he waits, as Jack tries to wrap his head around the words that just left his mouth.

Once reality sets in, Jack’s entire expression lights up, and he sits up straighter, as if a huge weight has disappeared from his shoulders. 

“That’s the best news I’ve heard in some time.” 

Abruptly changing the subject, Jack says, “So do you have any plans now that you're back in Baltimore?”

Will finds Jack's question to be disconcerting. It makes it sound like Will has just returned from a long holiday, rested and refreshed. But Will feels like he's been to hell and back, and some days, he's not sure if he ever made it out of the inferno. He can't shake the feeling that at least part of him is still there, burning in the core of the Earth.

There's the sound of a door slamming as someone leaves the office next door, and the loud noise brings Will out of his own thoughts and back to the present.  
  
  “I guess I’ll need to find a place to rent." 

Just saying those words out loud makes Will feel overwhelmed, so he quickly adds, "Or maybe just a cheap hotel room."

 “You don’t need a hotel, Will.”

“You don’t want me staying with you, Jack.”  

“You would be more than welcome to my guest bedroom, but that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

“You can move back home.”

His first thought is of Molly, their small little cabin in the woods, but of course, that door closed seven years ago.  
  
"What home?"  
  
"Your home, in Wolf Trap."

“Isn't someone living there?” 

"It’s 100 percent unoccupied.”  

At Will's confused, incredulous look, Jack says,  “You do remember that you never sold it, right? Even when you moved in with Molly.”  

“I thought Molly would have gotten rid of it by now.” 

“She tried, but she only got one offer.”

  Will looks at Jack curiously.   

“Freddie Lounds.”

Seeing the expression on Will's face, Jack hastens to add, “Don’t worry, we didn’t let her have it.”

  “I take it she wasn’t interested in living there.”  

“No, I suspect she wanted to open up a Will Graham museum.”  

“More like ‘Will Graham's House of Horrors.’”

"Something like that.”

Still confused, Will asks, “So Molly still owns it?”

  “No, no she doesn’t.”  

Jack pauses, before adding, “I bought it.” 

 “Why?” 

“It seemed like she could use the money—” 

Jack trails off, but Will waits patiently, until Jack finally puts his thoughts into words.

 “I wanted to believe that there was a chance you were still alive. I gave up hope with Miriam, and I didn’t want to make that same mistake again, not with you. Somehow, knowing that your house would be there, waiting if you ever came back, it made it easier to believe that you would return to us one day.”

Genuinely touched, Will says, "That was really nice of you, Jack."

Will frowns slightly. "But I don’t have any money.” 

“You still have some assets. We can unfreeze them. It will be enough for you to get by for awhile, at least.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t have enough money to pay you for the house.” 

 “You don’t have to pay me, Will. It’s yours, it’s always been yours. Besides, you’ve already given me something that’s absolutely priceless.”

  Jack doesn’t bother specifying, and Will doesn’t have to ask him. They both know how that sentence ends. 

Hannibal is dead, and there's nothing more important to Jack than being able to lay that burden to rest.

When Will opens his mouth, ready to object again, Jack cuts him off.  

“Please, don’t fight me on this. It really is the least I can do, and I'll sleep better at night knowing you’re back where you belong.”  

Will finally gives in, and says gratefully, “Thank you, Jack, for everything.”  

“You’re very welcome, Will.” 

He stands up, ready to leave, but before he can turn to go, Jack says, “Did they set you up with a rental car?”

 “Yeah, they did.”  

“Do you have any cash on you?”

  Will shakes his head. “I don’t even have a wallet.”

"I bet you don't have a phone, either."  
  
Not waiting for Will's response,   Jack reaches into his drawer, pulls out a spare phone that he keeps on hand for times when he wants to make calls that can’t be traced to his cell. He hands it to Will, along with a wad of $20 bills.  

“Here, take this for now."

When Will looks like he’s about to refuse, Jack says, “Just take it. We should have your accounts unfrozen by tomorrow.”

“Okay, thanks.”

  Will turns to go, but Jack calls out, stopping him once more, “Wait, I almost forgot.”  

He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a large key ring. When he finds the right one, he detaches it and then tosses it to Will, who catches it instinctively.

 “You’ll need that to get into your house.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
Once he leaves Jack's office, Will walks quickly through the familiar halls, purposefully avoiding eye contact, trying to ignore the whispers that follow his every step.

  When he finally gets to the rental car, he doesn’t turn it on immediately. Instead, he sits, staring at the steering wheel, fighting an internal battle.

 When he finally comes to a decision, he turns the key in the ignition, and he begins to drive.

   
  
  
  
  
  
The road that he takes does not lead him to Wolf Trap, Virginia. Instead, his instincts take him in a very different direction.

His mind is blank, all of his thoughts are turned to static, as he drives up a long, winding, road, until he finally pulls up outside of a small home, nestled in the woods.

  It has been recently painted, fixed up, almost unrecognizable from the image that is burned into his memory. 

He hesitates, considers turning around and going back the way he came, but before he has a chance to turn the car back on, he sees the front door open, and a woman walks out. 

Molly doesn’t bother closing the door behind her as she stands on the porch, staring at the unfamiliar car in confusion.   Will takes a deep breath, stealing himself, before he opens the door and gets out of the car.

From this distance, he can’t make out her expression. She doesn’t move or say anything, just following him with her eyes, as he walks slowly towards the house, stopping at the base of the front steps.

 “Will, I wasn’t expecting to see you.” 

Apologetically, he says, “I probably should have called first.”

 Then, a moment later, he adds, “You don’t seem _that_ surprised to see me.”  

“I saw the headlines.”

A moment later she adds, "And Jack called me." 

“Oh.”  

He waits for her to say something, anything, but when she doesn’t, he says, tentatively, “Can I come in?”    
  
Molly looks down at the floor, as she says “Now isn’t really a good time.” 

With sudden, dawning comprehension, Will says, “What’s his name?”  

“Paul.”

  “How long?”   

“Four years.” 

“is he here now?”  

Molly shakes her head. “He usually gets home from work a little after five.”

  Will glances at his watch. It’s 4:30 now.

  “Can I at least say hi to Wally? I won’t stay long.” 

Molly looks surprised, at first, and then slightly sad.

 “Wally’s a freshman at UVA. It’s the middle of the semester.” 

“Oh, yeah, of course. He must be, what, 19?”

  “Yeah.”  

“How’s he doing?”

  “He’s good, especially considering everything that’s happened.”

  Will winces at the many implications of those words.

Finally he asks, tentatively, “Does he know?”  
  
  “About you? Yeah, I told him. I didn’t want him to hear about it from someone else, or from a Freddie Lounds article.”

  “Does he want to see me?”

  “I don’t think he knows what he wants right now.” 

Will turns his body slightly, so that he is staring off into the distance, at the woods that circle the property.   

When he finally gets the courage to broach the next topic, he turns back to Molly and says, “How are the dogs?”

  “They’re fine. Happy, well fed.”

  “I know you’ve been taking care of them all this time, but I was—I was hoping I could at least take Winston back with me.”  

Molly’s words are quiet, gentle, and said, when she says, “Will, we had to put Winston down two years ago. He was 14.” 

It takes several minutes for the full force of those words to hit him. When the truth finally sinks in, Will feels a sharp pain in his chest, a burning in his throat, and he looks down at the ground, fighting to hold on to his composure.

Cautiously, Molly says, “He had a good, long life up until the end. His kidneys started failing—the vet said it’s common in older dogs. They only gave him a couple months, but he lasted for close to a year, before we finally had to put him down.”

  She adds, even more tentatively, “I think he was holding on—hoping for you to come back for him.”  

Will suddenly feels as if the world is crashing down on him, like he is burning alive from the inside out. He’s so lost in his pain that he doesn’t even notice that Molly has moved, walking down the steps, until there is less than a foot of space between them.

He looks up at her, with tired, bloodshot eyes. The unreserved sympathy in her expression, the slight dampness in her eyes, only makes the pain in his chest feel sharper, more unbearable. He feels like he’s lost the ability to speak or breathe.

Slowly, Molly reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he shies away violently before she makes contact.

He stumbles, but manages to stay standing. When he regains his footing, he says, in a shaky voice, “I better go.” 

Molly nods her head in understanding. Before he turns to leave, she says, in a strained tone, “We could have you over some time.” 

“No, no that’s okay. It’s better if—”  

Will pauses, not sure how to finish that sentence. Instead, he says, “Tell Wally that I love him.” And then, a moment later, he adds, “I hope you and Paul are happy together.”

The sincerity in his voice only seems to make the pain in Molly’s expression more pronounced, and Will turns around quickly, knowing that if he stays any longer, if he looks at her one more time, he might lose what little composure he has left.

 Molly calls out to him, “Will, I’m sorry—for everything.”

  His hand is already on the car door, but when he hears those words, he turns around to face her.

His voice is raw, as he says, forcefully, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

And with those words, he gets into the car, puts it into drive, and speeds down the winding road, without looking back.

 Molly stands there, motionless, watching as his car disappears into the distance. When he’s finally out of sight, she sits down on the bottom step and covers her face with her hands.

She doesn’t try to fight the tears as she cries with deep, heaving sobs, struggling under the weight of her sadness, cut to the core by the still fresh pain of a life long ago lost and a once hoped for future that now will never come to be.

But more than anything, in this moment, she mourns the loss of a man that she once knew and loved, a man who she buried in an empty grave seven years ago.

Even when the tears finally stop, she continues to sit on the steps, staring out at the road in front of her, pained by the dawning realization that once some things are broken, they can never be made whole again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
Will manages to maintain his composure until he reaches the highway, but as soon as he feels like there is enough distance between him and the home where he once lived—and the woman he once called his wife—he allows the tears to fall.

But he doesn’t stop driving, even as the his vision blurs, making it hard to see the road. He’s propelled onward by a desperate need to get away from everything, away from the lights, the sounds, away from the roads that are eerily familiar and foreign all at once. 

The only place he wants to be right now is home—or at least the closest thing to a home that he has.

  
  
  
  
  
  
When Will finally pulls up in front of his house in Wolf Trap, Virginia, there is a small, desperate part of him that expects to hear the sound of dogs barking in welcome.

 But of course, there are no dogs, no sounds, no signs of life at all. 

He gets out of the car stiffly. Suddenly, every part of him aches, but the physical pain is nothing in comparison to the black hole that seems to have opened up in his chest.

Will reaches for the key in his back pocket, but before he puts the key in the lock, he tests the handle, and finds the door is already open.

When he enters the house, before even bothering to turn on the lights or close the door, he pulls off his coat and throws it over a chair, only to realize, when the coat falls unceremoniouly to the floor, that there isn't a chair there any more. 

He doesn’t bother picking up the discarded coat. Instead, he turns around to shut the front door with one hand while he uses the other hand to flick on the light switch.

The sudden shift from dark to light is disorienting, but before he has a chance to get his bearings, he hears a frighteningly familiar voice.

 “Hello, Will. So good to see you again.”

Will’s heart races when he hears those words, but he doesn’t turn to face the source of the sound. In fact, he doesn’t move at all.

The only sign of recognition he gives is the ghost of a name that passes through his lips. 

_Hannibal_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, Hannibal followed Will home, just like a nice little murder puppy. I sure hope he’s housebroken! Of course, this wasn’t really supposed to be a surprise. After all, you can’t spell Hannigram without Hanni(bal).
> 
> Anyway, I know I promised more Hannigram, and this chapter didn’t really deliver much. Of course, if anyone called for an extra serving of angst, well, here you go. Hopefully the upcoming Hannigram action will make up for the fact that I killed off Winston. (Seriously, it hurt just writing that part of the dialogue.)
> 
> Oh, and one thing about Jack's characterization. I know in a lot of fics he gets portrayed as kind of a callous jerk, and there's definitely precedent for that in the series. But I also think on some level Jack genuinely cares about Will as a friend, even if he's willing to set those feelings aside when he needs something from Will. Still, I like to imagine that spending the last seven years believing Will died because of a plan that Jack helped orchestrate would soften him up a bit.
> 
> I'd love to hear any thoughts you guys have on the story so far!


	3. Dealing with the Devil

“I said I never wanted to see you again.”

 Will refuses to turn around so his words are directed to the closed front door. As long as he doesn’t have to look into those piercing eyes, then he can make himself believe that maybe he’s just hearing a disembodied voice, sound waves coursing through the air, no substance behind it.

 “But did you mean it, Will? Did you really mean it?”

 “Yes, I did.”

Hannibal pauses, and Will can tell, even without seeing his face, that Hannibal is thinking, analyzing, preparing to dissect some part of Will’s psyche.

 “Usually the belief that we can make ourselves disappear by simply hiding our eyes is extinguished in the early stages of development.”

  “I’m not trying to make myself disappear.”    
  
“Then you’re trying to make me disappear. Tell me, Will, am I the monster under your bed? As long as you don’t look, you can pretend that there’s nothing there?”    
  
“I always looked. I checked under my bed every single night before I went to sleep.”  
  
  “Then why not look now? I am here, whether or not you see my face.”    
  
“Not necessarily. Right now, I’m entertaining the idea that you might be Shrodinger’s Cannibal. You’re not absent or present unless I open the box.”

“The box is already open, Will. And once opened, it cannot be contained.”

No words are exchanged for several long minutes, and the whole time, Will can feel the weight of Hannibal's stare, until finally, Will relents, although a small part of him is hoping against hope that when he turns around—

But then all hope is extinguished, because there is a body—a body that matches the voice—sitting comfortably in an arm chair, a slightly satisfied smirk on his face.

“Why did you come here, Hannibal?”  
  
  “I came here because you did. We're two parts of the same whole. That is a fact that we both discovered seven years ago.”    
  
“I’m trying to undiscover it.” 

“Is that what you were doing when you made your way around the world?”  
  
  “Yes, but wherever I went, you always followed, staining everything that you touched.”  

“I did not stain those people, Will. I elevated them. I elevated them for you.”  
  
  “I didn’t ask—I didn’t want that.”  
  
  “Your desires are a zero sum game. The wishes of one part of you are mutually exclusive to the desires of the other parts. Your better nature will be confined and caged as long as you allow that to be so.”

 “I think we probably have a difference of opinion on what my better nature is.”

 “Perhaps that is true—in this moment. But I have faith that eventually you will find your way.”  
  
  “You mean I’ll find _your_ way.” 

“I have only your best interests in mind, Will.”  
  
  “You keep using words like best and better, but those words are just abstractions. They don’t mean anything at all when you look at them closely.”  

“All words are meaningless but for the meaning we give them.” 

They lapse into another long span of silence, Will steadily looking at the floor, Hannibal never taking his eyes off of Will.

Eventually, Hannibal says, “Tell me, why was it that you chose to return here, after all this time?” 

 “I spent three years trying to outrun you but you always followed, you always found me. I thought this was the one place where I could finally escape you.”  

“There is no escape, not for me, not for you.” 

This turn in their conversation suddenly gives Will another small, glimmer of hope.

 “You know they’ll find you here. It’s only a matter of time.”  
  
  “They could find me at any moment. You could pick up the phone and call Jack right now.” 

Hannibal leans forward slightly, his stare intent.

 “Are you going to pick up the phone, Will? Is that how you want this to end?”

“I don’t care how this ends, as long as it does.”

  “Then you can take comfort in the knowledge that one way or another, everything that exists will one day end.”    
  
“This can’t end soon enough for me.”    
  
And with those words, Will walks out of the living room and goes to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. 

 

 

  

It's just after 9 am and Jack is once again drinking his morning coffee, when he's interrupted by the ringing of his doorbell. 

When Jack opens the door, he sees Will standing on his front porch, looking awkward and out of his element.

“Will, I wasn’t expecting you.”    
  
“Can I come in?”    
  
“Of course.” 

Jack leads Will into the kitchen, where he immediately sits down and gestures for Will to take the chair opposite him.

“I’d rather stand.”    
  
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”  
  
  “No, I’m fine. Uh, thanks, though.”    
  
“So, what can I do for you, Will?”  
  
  “I want my job back.”    
  
“You want to go back to teaching?”    
  
“No, I want my other job back.”  
  
  “You want me to put you back in the field?”  
  
  “Yes.”  
  
  “I don’t even do that kind of thing any more.”  
  
  “I know.”

 At Jack’s curious look, Will adds, “I went to your office, earlier this morning. They said that you only come in a couple days a week to give lectures to the trainees.” 

“That’s right. They’ve put me out to pasture—again.”    
  
“Did they do that? Or did you?”  
  
  “It was mutual, more or less.” 

Jack’s expression hardens, slightly, as he returns to the original topic of conversation.

“You hated the work. I pushed you—I made you do it.”

“I know. But things have changed. I’ve changed and—”

 Will finally relents and sits down at the chair that Jack had previously offered.

 “I need to be out there, doing something. I feel like I’m suffocating, sitting at home—at home alone.”

Will looks at Jack, waiting expectantly for his response, but he’s caught off guard when Jack abruptly changes the subject.

“I heard you paid Molly a visit.”    
  
“Yeah, I did.”    
  
With a slightly challenging tone, Will adds, “Was I not supposed to?”

 “No, no I just—I just wish you would have told me that you were planning to go see her.”    
  
“Why? So you could stop me?”    
  
“I would have tried to, and you probably wouldn’t have listened. But at the very least I could have prepared you.”  
  
  “Nothing could have prepared me for that.”  
  
  “Fair enough.” 

Jack studies Will’s expression, carefully, thoughtfully, for several long minutes.

 Eventually, he says, “You really want to go back to the field?”    
  
“Yes.”

 “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Will is surprised by Jack’s sudden acquiescence, but before Will has a chance to thank him—or give any response at all—Jack says, “Go home, take a shower, and put on some decent clothes. I’ll meet you in my office at noon.”    
  
Looking down at himself, Will says, slightly bemused, “Jack, these are my decent clothes.”  
  
  “Then why don’t you stop off at a department store, buy a pair of pants and a shirt that actually fit you, and meet me at my office by 2.”    
  
There is something comforting about the way Jack so quickly returns to his previous self—sure and steady, barking orders, always taking it as a given that they’ll be obeyed.

 It gives Will hope that maybe, one day, he’ll somehow find a way to get back to himself, that he won’t always feel like he does right now—lost, broken, as if he’s walking around in a person suit that no longer fits him.

 

 

 

 After he leaves Jack’s house, Will drives to the nearest department store, where he does his best to quickly find a couple of items of clothing that might meet Jack's definition of acceptable. It's overwhelming being there, under those bright fluorescent lights, all the people, talking, wandering, staring.

He's never enjoyed going shopping, but now he finds it nearly unbearable. There are too many choices, too many decisions, too many people, and a small part of him is convinced that everyone is whispering about him. 

At a certain point, an employee must have noticed how lost he looked, and Will gratefully accepts her help, allowing her to select a few shirts and pants that met the criteria he gave her. 

Once Will finally has that onerous task completed, he stops off at a drive-thru restaurant and picks up a greasy, overpriced meal, that he only manages to eat a few bites of before he throws it out in disgust.

Instead of going home like Jack suggested, Will drives for awhile longer, until he pulls up outside of a cheap gym—one of those chains that’s always advertising their ‘one time deals’ to draw in people who will come there once and then never come back. 

Will walks in and makes his way up to the front desk, where a boy—sixteen, maybe seventeen years old—is dressed in gym clothes, looking bored, disinterested, one hand typing quickly on the phone that he’s holding in his lap in a half-hearted attempt at discretion.

 When Will reaches the counter, he clears his throat to get the kid’s attention. 

“I need to use your shower.”

  “It’s $15 a month or $100 a year.”    
  
“How much is it if I just want to shower?”

  The kid stares at him, dumbly.

Frustrated, Will reaches into his pocket, pulls out a twenty, and tosses it onto the counter, saying, “You can keep the change. Or just keep all of it.”

Then he turns, and walks towards the sign that says “Men's Locker Room” in bright, neon letters.   No one tries to stop him, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the kid look around furtively, before grabbing the twenty and quickly slipping it into the pocket of his pants.

Once Will has showered and changed, he glances at himself quickly in the mirror, and he decides that he looks marginally more presentable than he did in when he visited Jack earlier in the day.  
  
As he walks to his car, Will looks at his watch and sees that he still has a couple hours until he has to meet with Jack.

Going home is not an option—or at least not an option that he can handle right now—so instead he goes to the public library, where he makes use of one of the public computers, spending nearly an hour researching different home security systems.  He jots down the numbers on a receipt he found in his pocket, and then he returns to his car. 

He goes down his list, calling each company one by one until he finally finds someone who will come install the security system before the weekend. The knowledge that in a few days the alarm will be in place is the only thing that gives him the strength to make it through the intervening hours.

Of course, for Will, it’s not about what he wants to keep out. He’s always felt relatively safe in his isolation, and the only thing he fears has already found its way through the barrier, despite all of his best efforts.

But now that he’s finally come to terms with the fact that he will never be able to escape Hannibal, the only thing he can do is try to contain him.

  

 

 

If Will had known that the reason Jack wanted them to meet at the Behavioral Sciences Unit was so that Will’s psychological fitness could be evaluated, Will probably wouldn’t have shown up at all. Although he doesn’t remember much of what transpired during the course of the conversation, it seemed to have been enough for Jack—and the rest of the agency—because once they were done, the only thing Jack said was, “I’ll call you as soon as we have something for you come take a look at.”  

The span of hours stretching between the time when Will left Jack’s office and when he finally found himself on the road leading to Wolf Trap seems to have blurred and blended together, but by the time Will does return home, it’s already been dark for close to an hour. 

As he stands on his front porch, hand on the doorknob, there is small, desperate part of him hoping that Hannibal won’t be there when he opens the door, although a conflicting part of him fears finding an empty house, because that would mean Hannibal is out, wandering unrestrained, and Will doesn’t want to try to imagine what that might mean.

A moment later, when he opens the door, Hannibal immediately greets him.

“Hello, Will. How was your day?”  

“Fine.”    
  
“You must have been very busy. You’ve been gone for more than 12 hours.”    
  
“I had some errands to run.”  
  
  “And yet, you did not bring back any food back. That’s quite rude—almost as rude as walking out the door this morning without saying a word to me.”    
  
Will ignores Hannibal’s jab at his supposed impoliteness and instead says, “I’m not hungry.”    
  
“But you still need to eat, as do I.”  
  
  “Then go feed yourself.”   
  
 “There’s nothing in this house to eat. Other than you.”

  “Am I supposed to find that funny?”    
  
“It’s merely a statement of fact.” 

With a disgusted look, Will says, “I’m going to bed.”  
  
  “May I borrow your keys?” 

“No.”    
  
“Then I wonder how it is you expect me to feed myself.”  
  
  “I don’t care.”  

“You might care. You might care a great deal if I decide to procure my own food.”    
  
Hannibal pauses, for dramatic effect, before saying, “I imagine if I took a long enough walk, I would come across something edible, eventually. After all, the entire world is a buffet when you’re the apex predator.”    
  
Those words have a chilling effect on Will, as he imagine Hannibal stalking through the woods surrounding Wolf Trap, not stopping until—

Will concedes defeat before his mind can follow that train of thought any further.

“If I go get you something to eat, will you promise not to leave the house?”  
  
  “I will give you my word, for whatever that is worth to you.” 

Hannibal glances at the clock on the bookshelf.

 “Although you should leave now. The market will close soon.”  
  
  “There’s a fast food place twenty minutes from here. They’re open twenty four hours.” 

 “Nothing produced by that kind of establishment could be considered edible.” 

Something in him finally snapping, Will throws up his hands as he bites out, “Fine, I’ll go to the fucking grocery store.”  
  
  Hannibal looks completely unaffected by the loudness of Will’s voice, although he does give him a slight look of reproach for his word choice. 

Still, he does not comment on Will’s language or his tone. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a piece of paper. 

“I’ve already made you a list.” 

“Just leave it on the table. I’m going to change into a different shirt, and then I’ll go. On one condition.”  
  
  “What is your condition, Will?”    
  
“Someone is coming to install a security system on Friday. Please don’t let them see you.”

 “Is there something you’re trying to keep out, Will?”    
  
“Not anymore.”    
  
“Then you’re trying to keep me inside. Have you appointed yourself to be my keeper?”

  “I don’t have a choice. You’ve made sure of that.”

  “We always have a choice.”

  “What’s the point in choosing, when it’s only a matter of picking an equally undesired outcome?” 

 “So what will you do, if I decide to go out once more into the wild?”  
  
  “If you leave here—if the alarm is triggered—then I’ll call Jack.”  

“That is quite an elegant solution to your little problem.” 

“It’s only a solution to one small part of my problem.”  

Hannibal ignores Will’s last comment, instead saying, “If you are to be my jailer, does that mean I can expect you to provide food and recreation?”

 “I’ll be more than happy to give you the level of care that you would receive if you were in prison.”    
  
“That is quite a low bar.”  
  
  “I know.”    
  
“We could make this into a mutually beneficial arrangement. If you provide me with the ingredients, I will cook for both of us. And as for recreation, I'm happy to occupy myself with my drawings and my intellectual pursuits. All I ask is that you allow me the occasional chance to stretch my legs outside of the confines of this house.”

 “Fine. But you can’t wander out of sight.”    
  
“Why would I do that? I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure that I am always in your sights.”

“You already made a permanent place for yourself in my head and in my nightmares. Wasn’t than enough for you?”  
  
  “That will never be enough for either of us. Now, go get changed.”    
  
Will closes his eyes wearily, and then without saying another word, he leaves the room, mentally cursing himself, Hannibal, God, and the universe—everything that conspired to bring them to this place.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, we finally got some actual Hannigram scenes! Don't worry, there's plenty more where that came from. And of course, Will is about to go back into the field, so we can all look forward to some crime scene fun in the upcoming chapters. 
> 
> Speaking of upcoming chapters, the next chapter is well underway, so I might be able to get it posted some time this weekend. I've been on a roll with this story, but unfortunately I also have to devote my time to things like eating, sleeping, and you know, not getting fired from my job. (Too bad no one wants to pay me to spend my days writing fanfic.)
> 
> Anyway, I can't tell you guys how much I've appreciated hearing your comments on the last two chapters, and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this latest installment!


	4. Judgment Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really appreciate all the comments and kudos that you guys have left on the story so far. I'm looking forward to hearing your response to chapter 4.
> 
> But first, just a quick warning: We’ve got our first crime scene in this chapter. I don’t think it’s too gruesome, at least by this show’s standards, but feel free to skim, if that’s not your thing.

 

Will is standing on his porch, talking to the men who just finished installing the security system trying to get them to leave as quickly as possible when an unmarked, black SUV pulls up in his driveway. 

The other men are getting in the van to leave as Jack gets out of his car.  

When he sees Jack walking towards him, a desperate part of Will considers just running away into the woods and never looking back

But instead, he stands completely still, rooted to that spot, doing his best to hide his anxiety as he says—

“Hello, Jack.”

  “Will, I hope you don’t mind me stopping by like this.”  

Attempting to sound casual, Will says, “It’s only fair. I did the same thing to you.”  

“So you did.”

Jack glances back at the van that is driving away and says, “Did you just have a security system installed?” 

“I, uh, wanted to make sure Freddie Lounds doesn’t try to break in so she can take pictures of me while I’m sleeping.” 

The excuse sounds hollow to Will's ears, but fortunately Jack doesn’t press Will for more details.

“Mind if I come in?”

  “Um, the place is a mess, Jack. Is there something you wanted to talk about?”  

“I’ve got something I want you to take a look at.”

  “Crime scene?”  

Jack nods. “It's not far from here. I’m on my way there now, so I thought I’d see if I could give you a ride.”  

“Sure, let me just get my coat.” 

Will quickly turns around and goes inside the house, closing the door behind him before Jack can say anything else or try to follow him.

As soon as he enters the house, Will sees Hannibal sitting comfortably in the living room.

  “Hannibal, Jack’s outside.”

  “I know. I heard you two talking.”

  “Then why are you in here?”

  “I knew you wouldn’t allow him in the house, and I assume you purchased those impenetrable blackout curtains for this very reason.” 

Will is about to respond, but instead, he grabs his stuff and heads back outside, not wanting to risk Jack coming in to check on him, although he makes sure to activate the alarm before leaving.

When he gets outside, Jack is still standing in the same spot. 

Wanting to get Jack as far away from the house as soon as possible, Will immediately says, “I’m ready.”

  “Then let’s go.”

    They drive for about 15 minutes before Jack pulls off of the paved road and onto a dirt path. By way of explanation, Jack says, “The body was discovered out in the woods by a couple of hikers.” 

Jack stops the car, parking beside several other vehicles, although they have to walk for about ten minutes before they see the yellow tape and the crowd of FBI agents surrounding the crime scene. Jack is a few steps ahead of Will, and he quickly orders everyone to clear the scene.

Once the other agents are gone, Jack motions for Will to come closer.

 Will ducks under the yellow crime scene tape, and then he takes a deep breath, before turning to face the dead body.

A corpse—male, mid to late fifties—is pinned to a large oak tree, naked, his arms stretched out, fixed in that position by nails going through his palms into each branch, his feet tied together and hammered to the tree trunk, the nails going through his ankles.

Taking in the scene, Will says, “He was crucified.”  

“Do you think this is some sort of religious nut?”

  “No, there’s nothing holy about this. This is crucifixion as punishment. This is judgment.”

  “What’s he being punished for?”

Will moves close to the body, examining the man’s face. The lids are partially closed, but it's clear that there is only empty space behind them.  

“The killer removed his eyes.”

 As Will says those words, he bends down slightly to look into the slightly parted mouth.

  “Did he take out the tongue?”

  “Yep, ripped it right out.”  

Will moves to the left side of the body and then the right, before saying, “He cut off his ears too.” 

“The killer must have taken them as trophies. We didn’t find any trace of them.”

 Will looks down at the scorched earth surrounding the tree. “Was there a fire?”  

“That was what first caught the hikers’ attention. They smelled the smoke. Fortunately they were able to put it out before it could spread, though the soles of the victim’s feet were burned.”  

Jack waits for a moment, before saying, “I’ll be back back behind the tree line. Just let me know when you’re done.”  

Will’s only response is to close his eyes, as he begins the process of blocking out the world around him, wiping away his own identity so that he can slip into the mind of the killer.

The pendulum swings back and forth, and when he opens his eyes the world has transformed, from day to night. The tree is untouched, no traces of a fire, and the body is laid out on the ground.

 Will circles the corpse, as he says— 

“I knew you—or I knew of you. I knew the things you’d done, and I knew that I was the only one who could bring you to justice. I am judge, jury, and executioner.”

 He kneels down and picks up the corpse, throwing it over his shoulder, clutching a coil of rope in his left hand. 

“I take your lifeless body and bind it to the tree.”  

Will picks up a hammer.

“I nail your palms to the branches, and then your ankles to the trunk. I do it forcefully, brutally, shattering bones in the process.” 

“Once I’ve fixed you on the cross, I cut off the ropes that tied you there. I don’t need them any more.”

  Still holding the knife in his hand, he says, “I cut out your tongue—in death, you cannot speak. I slice off your ears, cleanly, neatly. I save your eyes for last, ripping them out of your skull. This is my design."

 He steps back several paces from the body, examining his creation.

“I have rendered you deaf, blind, and mute. Now it’s time for you to burn.” 

He strikes a match, and throws it onto the pile of twigs and dried leaves at the base of the tree. 

“I light the fire at your feet, and then I turn away. I do not watch you burn. I don’t need to. God is watching you now.”

When Will opens his eyes, it is day light once more.

As Jack approaches, Will says, quietly, more to himself than to Jack, “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”

Will turns to face Jack, before adding, “The killer knows something, something that this man did. Or rather, something that he didn’t do. He wasn’t the one who completed the act, but it was his complacency that fostered it.” 

“So is our killer an amoral psychopath? Or some kind of vigilante?”  

“He might be both. A vigilante would have killed him, but he wouldn’t have displayed him—not like this. The person who committed this murder, he sees himself as restoring order to the world, but he wants that order to be poetic. He wants it to be heard, to be recognized, to be admired.”  

“Has he killed like this before?”  

“This wasn’t his first time killing, not even close, but it would have been different, every time. The scene tailored to the crime.”

  “So you think he'll kill again?”

  “Yes, soon.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “This victim was punished for what he allowed to happen. If the killer knows the person—or persons—responsible for the actual crimes, the killer will go after them next.” 

“But why not go after them first?” 

“He wants them to know that he’s coming for them. The killer wants them to be afraid.“

Will pauses for a moment before asking, “Have you been able to identify the body?”

  “We’re still working on that. So far, no DNA matches, and no missing persons reports matching the victim.”  
  
Jack looks over at the crucified body, and then back to Will.   
  
"I'll take you home now. I'll get in touch when we have more information."

  
  
  
  
  
  
The next day, a little before 11 am, Will gets a message from Jack, telling him that they’ve identified the body, and asking him to come to headquarters. 

Grateful for an excuse to get out of the house, Will grabs his coat and his keys, walking past the kitchen without saying a word to Hannibal, who is currently in the staring at the contents of the fridge with a subtle look of displeasure. 

Hannibal calls out, “I need you to pick up a few things from the store.”  

Despite himself, Will turns around and heads back to the kitchen.

“What do you need?”

  “I left the list on the table. Make sure you’re home by 5.” 

Will grabs the piece of paper, glances quickly at the list of ingredients written in that meticulous script. He shoves it into his pocket, and then he leaves without saying another word.

 

 

 

 Jack meets Will in the hallway, and leads him into the morgue, where Will sees two familiar faces staring at him. 

Price greets him first.

“Will, welcome back.”

Zeller adds, “Good to see you’re not dead.”  
  
  “Um, thanks.”    
  
Cheerily Price says, “You must be our good luck charm.”  
  
  “Yeah, we haven’t had a murder that was this elaborate in, well—”

Price finishes the sentence. “Seven years.”

 Will looks uncomfortable, and Jack quickly intervenes.    
  
“Zeller, what do you have for us?” 

“There were puncture wounds and broken bones from the nails that went into his hands and feet. The killer also took out his kidneys and his liver. The incisions were made on his back, so they weren’t visible until we got him down from the tree.” 

Will is about to say something, but he hesitates, looking to Jack who is standing at the edge of the room. Jack nods, and says, “Be my guest.”  

Turning back to Price and Zeller, Will asks, “What else did you find?”

“There were signs of a struggle—see this—handprints around his neck.”

  “Was the cause of death asphyxiation?”

 “No, his neck was snapped, although he may have already passed out by the time that happened.”  
  
  “So he was mutilated after he died?”  
  
  “Yep, the rest of the injuries were post mortem.” 

Price adds, “We didn’t get any matches for the DNA and fingerprints of the victim in the database, but we did link him to a missing persons report that was posted this morning. We were able to use medical and dental records to confirm.” 

 Will turns to Jack and says, “So who is he?”  
  
  “James Anderson. He was a deacon affiliated with a Catholic church over in Fairfax. He’d been there for almost twenty years.”

“Did you find any fingerprints, DNA, anything that might have belonged to the killer?”

  “Not a trace. It’s as if the Hand of God himself placed that man on the cross.”

“The Hand of God? That’s a bit colorful for you, Jack. It sounds like something out of a Freddie Lounds article.” 

“It is.”

“After seven years, you still haven’t found a way to keep her from trespassing on crime scenes?”  

Jack shrugs, before saying, “What else can you tell me about the killer? Do you think there's a way for us to draw him out?”

 Will shakes his head. “The killer wanted the corpse to be found, he wanted his work to be recognized, but he doesn’t want to be seen. He wants to remain in the shadows, at least for now.” 

“We’re working on getting in touch with family, loved ones, friends of the deceased, trying to see if the victim might have had some kind of personal connection to the killer.”    
  
“You’re wasting your time. This wasn’t personal, not in any discernible way.”

  Will pauses, and then adds, thoughtfully, “He’s not the one you should be investigating. You should be focusing on whoever the killer is going to go after next.”

  “How do you suggest we do that?” 

Will stares at the face of the dead man, at the empty sockets where his eyes should be.

Something stirs in the back of his mind, only a flicker, a thought or memory that he can’t place, but it’s enough to give him an idea.

He turns to Jack and says, “Was anyone transferred recently, anyone in the clergy, either to or from that church?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure we can find out. What’s the connection?”

  “That might lead you to the next target. This man conspired to protect someone, and maybe he did that by accepting that person into that church or by sending him somewhere else.” 

Will pauses, before adding, “You should also check and see about any complaints—either official or unofficial—against anyone at the church.”

“I’ll make the calls. Do you want to come back to my office while we wait?”

 Will glances at his watch. It’s already close to three. If he’s going to make it to the store to pick up ingredients, and get home in time for—

 He stops, feeling torn—torn between the part of himself that is bent to Hannibal’s will, and the other part that is desperately fighting to break free.

At a certain point, he realizes Jack is still staring at him expectantly, and so Will gives the first answer that comes to him—Hannibal’s answer, because no matter how hard he fights, no matter how long, Hannibal will win. He always does.

“I’m going to head home. Call me if you find out anything.”  

  
  
  
  
  
  
Will gets home a little before five. Hannibal is sitting in the living room, staring intently at the canvas in front of him, as he delicately sketches out a scene plucked from his memory.

Hannibal looks up at the sound of the front door opening, and he does not hide his pleased response to Will arriving home on time, carrying several bags filled with groceries.   As Will sets them down heavily on the kitchen table, Hannibal comes over and glances into the bags, checking to make sure Will followed his instructions.

With his examination complete, Hannibal looks up at Will and says, “Would you care to assist me?”    
  
Truthfully, Will says, “My head is killing me. I think I need to lie down for a bit.”   
  
 Hannibal’s features harden slightly. “You are already suffering the toll that this work takes on you. Maybe you should have considered your actions more carefully before allowing Jack to pull you once more into that dark abyss.”    
  
“I’m already in the abyss. I figured I might as well do some good while I’m down there.”    
  
With those words, Will turns around, and heads towards the bedroom, although Hannibal calls out, “I’ll wake you when dinner is ready.”

 

 

   
 

As it turns out, Hannibal doesn’t need to wake Will. The smells that travel from the kitchen to the bedroom are all that’s required to stir Will from his sleep—or rather, his state of half dreaming, half waking, submerged in the stream, never fully dropping off into the depths of unconsciousness.

Will stumbles slightly as he gets out of bed, and then he makes his way slowly to the kitchen.

As he pauses on the threshold, he sees Hannibal standing in front of the stove.

“That smells good. What is it?”

  “You don't recognize it?”  
  
"No."  
  
  Hannibal gestures for Will to come closer, and Will obeys, moving forward until he and Hannibal are standing side by side, in front of the stove top.

Will closes his eyes and inhales again, allowing the fragrant aromas to submerge his senses, trying to identify the different spices and ingredients. As he does so, he can’t help but notice the other, more subtle scent that permeates the room—the unmistakeable scent of Hannibal.

Eyes still closed, he finds himself transported to a different time and place, to a memory of a moment seven years ago, when they were in a kitchen, much like they are now— 

Will opens his eyes and says, “This was the first thing you cooked for us—after—after we—”

 “After we emerged from the sea and left our old lives behind.”

  “Yeah."

“It is a proven fact that scent is one of the senses most closely tied to our memory.” 

Will turns those words over in his mind. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “My actions are always purposeful. I’ve never been inclined to perform action without thought.”

Hannibal stirs the stew once more, and then he turns off the heat, before saying to Will, “Tell me, what do you believe my purpose to be?”

  “You wanted to remind me of what things were like, before—”  

“Before what?”  
  
  “You wanted me to remember how it felt, when we first ran off together.”  
  
  “I wanted to remind both of us of that simpler, happier time.”  
  
  “Simple isn’t the word I would use. Easier, maybe.”  
  
  “What about happier?”

  Reluctantly, Will admits, “Yeah, it was happier.”  

“Maybe we can find that equilibrium once again.”

  “A lot has happened since then.”

“A lot had happened before then, as well. I framed you for the crimes I committed, you sent Matthew Brown to kill me, you held a gun to my head in my kitchen, I sent Randall Tier to kill you, I—”

“Please, stop.”  

“As you wish. I don't want to upset you, especially when we are about to eat. I’m simply drawing your attention to the fact that we were able to forgive one another all those trespasses. What is it that makes more recent events so unforgivable?”

  “I'm not—I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps that is something you should contemplate further, but for now, put those thoughts out of your head."  
  
Hannibal sends down the wooden spoon that was in his hand, before adding, "Why don't you set the table while I finish plating the food.”

  Despite himself, Will says, with a fondness he can’t completely extinguish, “You’re the only person who ‘plates’ every single meal.”

  “I’ve always believed that a meal should be enjoyed with all the senses, and sight is no exception.”  

“Is that a passive aggressive way of reminding me that I need to get nicer dishes?” 

“No, not at all. Although I should probably mention that I took the liberty of ordering new dishes and flatware. They should be here tomorrow. I used your name, of course.”  

Not entirely sure how to react to that, Will says, “Um, thanks?”  

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m well aware that this was more for my pleasure than yours. Still, I appreciate your indulging me in this.”  

As he speaks, Hannibal puts the final garnish on the main course, and he carries it to the table.

Once they have both sat down in their chairs, facing each other, Hannibal says, “I look forward to hearing about your latest case, if you’re inclined to share.”  

And despite himself, Will realizes that he is. Even after everything that’s happened, he still feels the pull of Hannibal's presence, and he cannot find the strength within himself to resist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first time writing a Hannibal style crime scene including Will's "this is my design" re-imagining of the crime, so hopefully it turned out okay. There will definitely be more murders to come as the story progresses. On that note, I have to admit I’m actually kind of enjoying writing the gruesome murders which is, um, maybe a little concerning? Or very concerning? At least we also got some slightly less antagonistic Hannigram scenes to balance out the murder stuff.
> 
> The next chapter is almost done. It's tentatively titled, "Sins of the Flesh." In the meantime, I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter :)


	5. Sins of the Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning: In addition to our second murder scene, there is also discussion of a suicide and a very brief, very vague reference to sexual assault of a minor (no canon characters are involved).

 Will has just finished describing the case—the murder scene, what they’ve managed to discover about the identity of the deceased.  

Hannibal is staring out into the distance thoughtfully, as Will returns to eating his meal.  

After awhile Hannibal says, quietly, “Mizaru, Kikazaru, Iwazaru.”  

Will gives him a curious look. “Is that Japanese?”

  “Yes. Does it sound familiar to you?”

  “It does, but I can’t place it.”

  “I had a small print, in our home in France. It was an image tied to a Japanese proverb, the three wise monkeys. You once asked me what the characters were.”

Suddenly remembering, Will says,   “See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.”  

Hannibal nods. "Those were the names of the three monkeys in the original depiction.”

Curious about the fact that Hannibal's thoughts had so closely matched his own, Will asks, “What made you think of that?”

  “You mentioned that he was crucified. Crucifixion is often associated with holy rites, but that’s only because Christianity imbued it with that meaning. Binding someone to a cross was originally envisioned as a punishment, and a brutal one at that, but it’s value went beyond the punitive for the Ancient Romans. It was a message to all who witnessed it.”

  “And that’s the message you heard?” 

Hannibal smiles, slightly, clearly enjoying himself. "It’s rather evocative. Removing the tongue, eyes, and ears. I’m curious, what did you see when you slipped into the mind of our murderer?”  

“That’s what I thought, too. It was clearly a judgment. This man blinded himself—purposefully—and the killer was making him pay for his sins.”  

“Quite eloquently.” 

“Yeah, I suppose.”

  “Was he alive when he was crucified?”

  “No, his neck was snapped before he was put on the cross.”

  “Then our killer is an angel of mercy as well as death.” 

Hannibal watches Will for a moment, while he finishes up the last bites of food on his plate.

Changing topics, Hannibal asks,  “Does the dish taste as you remembered?”

  “Yeah, although there’s a slightly different flavor that I can’t quite place.”  

“I had to make do with a different cut of meat. The butchers in this country are put to shame by those in France.”  

A moment later, Hannibal stands up and says, “Time for dessert.” 

 

 

 

Two days later, Will gets a call from Jack.   When Will answers the phone, the first thing Jack says is—

“I’m going to interview a priest at that Catholic church in Fairfax. I want you to come with me. Should I pick you up?”

  Will glances over at Hannibal, who is sitting in a chair, reading a book, periodically jotting down notes in his notebook. 

“Give me the address. I’ll meet you there.” 

As Will hangs up, Hannibal sets down the book, and says, “Has Jack come calling again?”  

“We’re going to interview someone at the church.”  

“The one where your crucified man was serving as a deacon?”  

“Apparently.”

  Hannibal picks up the book again and says, “I’ll be interested to hear how your investigation goes over dinner tonight.”  

Will has gathered his things, prepared to leave, but on his way to the door he pauses, and says, somewhat hesitantly, “Do you need me to pick up anything? While I’m out?”

  Hannibal’s eyes light up—he’s clearly pleased at the thaw in Will’s originally icy demeanor—but all he says in response is, “No, I have all the ingredients I need.”  

Hearing those words, Will says, “I’ll be home by seven.” 

And then he grabs his keys and heads out the door.  

 

 

 

Jack is standing outside the church as Will pulls up.

As he gets out of the car, Will asks, “Have you been inside yet?”

  “No, I was waiting for you.”

  “So, who exactly are we interviewing?” 

“Joseph Cavanaugh. He was known as Father Joe by the altar boys.” 

“What made you want to interview him?"

 “I followed where you pointed me. Cavanaugh started out at this church, nearly a decade ago, but after six months, he was transferred to a different church somewhere in South Carolina.”

  “And after that?”

  “He stayed at most of those places for a few months, almost two years at one church, but never longer than that.”

  “When did he come back here?”  

“About four weeks ago.”  

Jack watches Will’s face carefully, before saying, “So, do you think this could be the guy?”

  “It seems possible.”

  “Then let’s go see what he has to say for himself.” 

As Will and Jack enter the church, the first thing they notice is the smell of burning flesh. Once their eyes adjust to the dim light, they can see that the church is deserted, except for the body, kneeling in supplication, hands held together in prayer, on the altar at the far end of the cathedral. 

The most striking part of the entire tableaux is the fact that there is just a body—nothing above the neck. But there is a head on a platter, resting on a pedestal so that it is elevated slightly above the hands held in prayer.

Or at least what remains of the head. Most of the tissue has been eaten away by the fire that has now died down to the barest flicker.

 Jack reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, dials a number and says, “I need ERT at—”

  Will stops listening, blocking out the sound of Jack’s voice. Instead, his entire focus is on the scene in front of him. He’s so focused, that he’s startled by the sound of Jack’s voice, coming from just behind his shoulder.  

“So is this judgment too?”

 Not taking his eyes off the dead man, Will says, “Yes. This man has been judged, and the killer has sentenced him to the Inferno.” 

Will walks slowly up the steps of the altar, and then he begins to circle the body.

  When he is standing behind the burning head, facing the body posed in prayer, he notices, for the first time, that the man’s clerical robes are open, and his chest is exposed—completely exposed. The skin has been sliced away, cleanly, neatly, almost like a frame. Muscle and fat have been removed so that there is an unobstructed view of the ribs and the organs underneath. 

All the organs are present and intact, with one notable exception. There is an empty space, in the upper left quadrant of his chest.

“The killer took his heart.”

Jack looks up at Will’s words, though he doesn’t come closer. Instead, he says, “ERT will be here soon, but I’ll go outside, keep them out until you’re done in here.” Without waiting for a response, Jack turns around and walks towards the front of the church. 

 Will closes his eyes, allows the world to melt away, the pendulum swings in his vision, and when he opens his eyes, he’s no longer looking at a headless body. Instead, he’s standing at the entrance of the church, looking at the altar, watching a man who is sitting on a chair towards the back of the raised platform, reading the bible in his hands, completely unaware of the that is about to befall him.  

“It is not luck that brings me to this place. I knew that he would be alone, that now is the time when I could pass judgement with only the eyes of God watching over me.”

  “I call out a name, the words echoing in the empty cathedral.” 

_Father Joe_

The man looks up, his mouth forming a question, but before he can speak, Will runs towards him, with such speed that the other man does not have a chance to flee.  

“I throw myself on top of him, pinning him underneath me. I can sense his fear, and it excites me.” 

 _Do you know why I’m here?_

“He shakes his head, and the denial only fuels my rage.” 

 _Do you know why James Anderson died?_

“Another denial, and now it’s time for me to reveal myself to him."

_Do you know why I killed him?”_

“The priest was afraid before, but now he’s terrified, shaking, trembling before me. This is why I killed him last. I wanted this man to know the terror of what is to come. This is my design.”

“I place my hands around his neck, tightening my grip, compressing his airway. I watch as his face turns a deep shade of red, and then I let go.”  

“I allow him to take one gasping, choking breath, before my hands are wrapped around his neck again, but this time I keep the pressure light. I want him to be able to speak.”

 _Do you know why I’m here?_   

The priest’s voice is hoarse, as he tries to obfuscate, to justify.  

Will grabs his head, lifts it up, and then bring it down with a great force against the hard wooden floor. The sound of bone connecting with wood echoes through the empty church. 

“I make sure that the blow is not enough to bring him the mercy of unconsciousness. I need him to hear what I have to say next.”

_God is watching you, Father. He’s judging you in this very moment. Now is your chance to repent, to confess your sins._

"His expression is defiant, because he believes God has forgiven his sins. He believes that he has paid his penance.”

Will’s hand is once again wrapped lightly around the priest’s throat.

“My voice is menacing as I deliver my final message—I need him to feel my anger, hear my rage. I want him to know what is coming.”

  _God may have forgiven your sins, but his is not the forgiveness you should be seeking. I haven’t absolved you of your sins. It is my judgment you should fear._  

The priest opens his mouth, as if to speak, but he doesn’t have a chance to get out a single syllable, because a moment later, Will places his hands on both sides of the priest's head, and in one decisive motion, he snaps the man's neck.

Will stares at the dead eyes, before getting to his feet, and going to pick up the bag that he dropped in the aisle of the church.  

“I pull out an axe, the blade impossibly sharp, and I return to the altar.”

  He stands over the body, the axe held above his head, and then, with all his strength, he swings the blade, severing the priet's head from his neck. He pays no attention to the blood that is staining the floor, as he goes to the bag once more, and pulls out a scalpel.

  “I carefully cut away the skin around his chest, exposing the muscles and organs underneath. I am purposeful, artful, as I create my masterpiece. And for the final brushstroke, I reach my hand under the rib cage, pushing his left lung aside, and then I wrap my hands around his heart, ripping it from his chest.” 

Will seals the heart inside of a plastic bag before returning to the task of arranging the body, binding the man’s wrists together, placing him in his position of prayer.

Will pulls out a circular silver platter, and he balances it carefully on a pedestal. As he sets the disembodied head upon the platter, he admires the way the scarlet blood decorates the silver.

He steps back from the body once more, as he says, “The stage is set. Now it’s time for my final act. I pour gasoline over the head, and then I take out a match, light it, throw it onto the platter.”

  “I don’t stay to watch the blaze devour him. God is watching him now. I have passed my judgment, doled out my punishment, and now God can do with his sinner what he will.” 

Suddenly, Will opens his eyes, jerking himself back to the present.

 With one final glance at the crime scene, he turns around, and feeling almost unbearably tired, he walks slowly out of the church to the outside world where the bright light of day stings his tired eyes.

  Jack is standing by the door, talking to several agents, though he immediately cuts the conversation short when he sees Will emerge.  

“So, what do you have for me?”

 Will quickly relays what he gathered from his reconstruction. Jack listens intently, digesting the information.  

“I’ll have the team see what they can get from the scene.”  

He looks at Will’s tired expression and adds, “Go home. I’ll call you when we have more information.”

  Will is grateful to Jack for not pushing, although he can only manage a mumbled, “Yeah, okay.”

  Will gets into the car and makes his way back to Wolf Trap, struggling to keep his eyes open and on the road.  

He’s immensely grateful when he finally pulls up outside his home, and he staggers inside.  

Hannibal is in the living room, sketching, but he looks up when Will enters.

  “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

 “That’s about how I feel.”

“I didn’t expect you home so early in the day, and I won’t have dinner ready for another few hours. You have plenty of time to rest before we eat.”

  Leaning against the wall, eyes already partly closed, Will says, “I don’t want to sleep.”

  Hannibal looks at him appraisingly, although Will no longer feels threatened by the stare.

“Do you fear the nightmares that your sleeping brain may conjure up?”  

Will doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to.

  Hannibal sets down his sketch pad and stands up, as he says, “Your piano seems to be relatively well tuned. Why don’t you rest on the couch while I play. I’ll be able to wake you if it seems that you’ve fallen into the grips of a nightmare.”

 “Yeah, that sounds—that sounds good.”  

Will makes his way over to the couch, slips off his shoes, and lies down on his side, watching as Hannibal seats himself on the bench.

 A moment later, Hannibal begins to play, and Will closes his eyes, allowing himself to become lost in the music. 

 

 

  

 

Will does end up falling asleep, but it is an uncharacteristically peaceful sleep.

When he opens his eyes, the sun is already setting, and Hannibal is no longer at the piano, although there is classical music playing from the stereo.

Hannibal seems to sense Will’s stirring, because he steps out from the kitchen and says, “Dinner is almost ready.” 

Will makes his way over to the kitchen, and stands on the threshold, watching Hannibal work.   Conversationally, Hannibal asks, “Do you remember when I first made this dish for you?”  

He recognizes the scent almost immediately. “We were traveling in Spain, outside of Barcelona.”

  “We were.”

  “It was one of the first dishes that you tried to teach me how to cook.”  

“Indeed it was.” 

Will remembers the moment fondly—Hannibal surprisingly patient despite Will’s rather lackluster grasp of the culinary arts. 

He’s brought back to the present by the sound of Hannibal turning off the oven.

 “Should I set the table?”

  “It’s already set.”

  Will looks over to the table. “Are these the new plates?”

  “They are.

”  The plates are certainly much nicer than the ones that Will had previously, although they’re still relatively understated, unobtrusive.

Realizing that Hannibal is watching him for a reaction, Will looks up and says, genuinely, “They’re nice. A definite improvement.”  

Hannibal inclines his head. "I’m glad you think so.” 

Then, looking over at the bottle of white wine on the kitchen counter, he says, "Why don’t you open the wine while I bring the food to the table.” 

Once they are both seated, Will describes the details of the crime scene that he and Jack discovered at the church.

 Hannibal listens intently, and then says, “Do you know the story of John the Baptist as told in the Gospel of Mark?” 

“It sounds familiar.”

“According to that account, he was beheaded, his head delivered on a silver platter to the woman who requested his death, while his disciples were allowed to bury his body.”  

Will considers those words. “So both of these men were given biblical punishments, left to burn, and the organs that were removed were selected very purposefully."

“There’s a poetic quality to these murders—biblical vengeance used again holy men who allowed their wrongs to be sheltered by their faith.”

 A moment later, Hannibal adds, “You said this man’s name is Joseph Cavanaugh?”  

“Yeah. Father Joe, apparently.” 

“I recall reading something recently that might be of interest to you.”  

“Of interest how?”

  “It relates to these murders.” 

Suddenly any residual fatigue has faded, and Will leans forward, as he waits for Hannibal to explain. 

“Nearly ten years ago, a man—a priest—named Joseph Cavanaugh was accused of having an inappropriate relationship with a boy, thirteen at the time.”  

"What happened?”

  “There was no further action, after the original accusation. The boy was troubled, prone to lying and misdirection, came from a broken home. It was easy to discredit him. No charges were ever filed.” 

 “I should tell Jack. We should try to contact—” 

“That boy committed suicide almost ten days ago. He was twenty three.”

  Will stops, a cold feeling building in his chest, only able to utter a single word—

“How?”

  “How did he kill himself?”  

Will nods, slowly. 

“Self immolation.”  

Will turns those words over in his mind before he grasps their meaning.  

“He lit himself on fire?”

  “Yes.” 

“I think—I think I remember reading about that.”  

“You might have. It got some attention in the papers, although his death was quickly overshadowed by your reappearance.”

“It doesn’t sound like something that would go beyond the local news, even if the method is unusually violent.”  

“He did it in public, outside the steps of that very church, on a Sunday, just as everyone was leaving the morning service. Several people got it on video.”

Images of a young man, burning in front of a crowd, as careless worshippers use their phones to record it causes Will to suddenly lose his appetite.

 Setting down his fork, he asks, “Did any of the news stories mention the priest?”

  “Only one of them.”

“Freddie Lounds?”

  Hannibal nods. 

“I should still call Jack. He’d want to know about this.”

  “Yes, you should, but not until after we finish eating. Your food will get cold.” 

Will was preparing to stand up, but hearing words, he settles back down in his chair. Even though his appetite has been dampened by this latest turn in their conversation, he’s still inclined to do what he can to preserve the quiet peace that has somehow returned to their relationship.

And so, with Hannibal’s ever present, attentive gaze fixed on him, Will picks up his fork and continues to eat.

 

 

 

 

Several hours later, as he prepares to go to bed, Will finds his attention drawn over and over to the newspaper that Hannibal had given to him. The article has a photo of a man, Peter Williams, twenty three at the time of his death. There is a youthful quality to his features, but his eyes have that dead, haunted stare of someone who has been to the brink and never came back.

When Will closes his eyes, as he drifts off to sleep, the image of that face follows him into his dreams.

_His body is enveloped in a clerical robe. He can feel the hard wood pressing into his shins as he kneels with his hands clasped in front of him in prayer.   He tries to turn his head, but he can’t. He’s forced to look ahead, at the silver platter, and the head that is surrounded by fire._

_As he watches in horror, he sees the burning skull shift, antlers rising out from the flames, a black silhouette emerging, that familiar, haunting face—_

_And then it changes once more, and he’s staring at a boy—twenty three—his features unmistakeable even though they are wrapped in flames._

_Before his eyes, the face shifts again, the years melt away, until he’s staring at a boy, thirteen, looking lost and defiant—_

_And then, standing behind the burning head, he sees himself, clad in his police uniform, the same one he wore nearly a decade ago—_

Will wakes up, eyes wild and disoriented. Hannibal is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, staring at him with a steady, unwavering gaze.

Hoarsely, Will says, “Did I wake you?”  

“I’m a light sleeper, and you are a restless one.”  

Hannibal pauses, and then says, “I wonder what it was that disturbed your sleep on this particular night. You seem haunted by it, even more so than usual.”

Those words are a reminder of their early time together, close quarters, when Hannibal was always there to pull him out of the iron grip of his night terrors.

But Will’s thoughts quickly shift from those memories to the final image of his dream.

“I met him. I met Peter, ten years ago.”

  “The boy who committed suicide?” 

Will nods, slowly.

“It was back when I was still working homicide. I saw him at the station. He was waiting, alone, outside one of the interrogation rooms. He didn’t have anyone with him, so I asked him if he was waiting for someone. He said he came in to give a statement, but he didn’t seem inclined to say anything else about it, and I didn’t push him.”

Will closes his eyes, bringing the memory into focus.

“I was finishing up my shift, so I stayed with him. He didn’t seem to want to talk about himself, but I mentioned my dogs, and he seemed interested. I showed him some pictures and talked a bit about how I found them, until a cop came out from the interrogation room and told the kid that they wouldn’t be needing his statement after all.” 

“While the cop was talking, I was watching Peter's expression. There was a moment, just a second, when I saw his mask slip, and his face was etched with this raw pain—and then suddenly it was gone.” 

Will opens his eyes again and stares, unseeing, into the distance.

 “Once the cop left, I asked Peter if he needed a ride home, but he said his mother was waiting for him in her car, and then he ran out of the station. I went after him, but he was already gone by the time I got outside.”

For the first time since he began narrating his memories, Will looks back to Hannibal, who is watching him with intense interest.  

“Do you remember anything else about that night?”

  “I remember going back inside the station, to get my things, and seeing the cop sitting in that room, but the door was open this time. He was talking to this man—they were laughing, joking and I felt—” 

Will trails off, so Hannibal pushes gently, “What did you feel in that moment?”

  “I remember a violent flare of anger, I remember wanting to hurt him—because whatever led up to that moment, I knew this man had just shattered that whole kid’s world, and there he was, laughing, smiling, not giving it a second thought.”  

“Who was the cop talking to?”

 Will only realizes the answer in the split second before he utters the name.

 “James Anderson.”

 “The man on the cross.”

  “Yeah.”

Staring at the threadbare quilt covering his bed, Will suddenly he feels like there’s a darkness inside of him that might swallow him up.

  “Will?”

  He looks up, at Hannibal, who has stepped over the threshold so that he’s now standing only a few feet from Will’s bed.

  “Why don’t you come to the kitchen. I’ll make us breakfast.”

  Will glances at the clock on the night table.

“It’s five am.”

  “Do you plan on going back to sleep?”

  Grimacing, Will says, "Not if I can help it."

“Then we might as well eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the little glimpses of their previous murder husband domestic life in this chapter. Don't worry, there's much more to come! And we've also got some more artsy murders ahead as well. 
> 
> My brain is pretty fried from work, but I wanted to go ahead and get this posted so that I could focus on getting chapter five up for my other story and because I felt like you guys deserved an update, so please forgive any typos, etc., that might have slipped through the cracks. I always periodically re-proof my stories because I'm just sort of compulsive like that, so I'll catch them on my next read through, although feel free to point out if you catch anything glaring.
> 
> Also, citation time: I got the name of the three monkeys from Wikipedia. I also got some of the details about the John the Baptist beheading as well. (Yeah, I know, there's a part of me that remembers every English teacher ever saying, Wikipedia can't be used as a source, but whatever, I'm just going with it.)
> 
> Chapter 6 is tentatively titled, "The Eye of the Beholder." The plot is definitely going to start picking up over the next couple chapters. However, I might be a little slower updating because I've got a lot more to write from scratch for Chapters 6/7/8, but after that, the updating speed should pick up, because I've got about 12,000 words that are just begging to get posted. 
> 
> Oh man, I'm totally doing that tired rambling thing, so I'll just close by saying thank you to everyone who left feedback on the last chapter! It's always wonderful hearing from you guys.


	6. Eye of the Beholder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the insanely long wait for this chapter! Not sure if anyone is even bothering to follow this story anymore, but I do at long last have an update for all of you. Hope you enjoy it!

One morning, several days after Father Joe’s murder, Will stumbles into the kitchen to find Hannibal standing in front of a sizzling frying pan, spatula in his hand.

Stifling a yawn, Will asks, “What are you making?”  
  
Without taking his eyes off the stove, Hannibal replies, “A simple sausage and egg scramble.”  
  
Those words immediately bring to mind their first meal together, a memory both tainted and oddly cherished. But Will’s musings are quickly pushed aside by a more pressing question.

“Where did you get sausage from?”  
  
“You bought it, the last time you went shopping for me.”  
  
Will screws up his face, searching his memory. “Did I?”  
  
“You did, along with the rest of the items on the list I provided to you.” 

“I really don’t remember that.”  
  
“Why don’t you check, if you don’t believe me.”  
  
Hannibal’s tone and expression are neutral, but Will senses a trap, or maybe a test, hiding beneath those words. 

Still, curiosity—along with something darker and harder to pin down—win out. He goes to the chair where he carelessly draped his coat and reaches into his pocket only to find—

“It’s not here.”  
  
“You must have thrown it out.”  
  
For a single, desperate moment, Will considers going through the garbage, but before he can consider the idea any further, he hears Hannibal say— 

“They picked up the trash this morning.”  
  
Will feels embarrassed, caught out, although at the same time he has to ask himself, _Since when have you questioned your distrust for Hannibal Lecter?_  
  
Suddenly feeling more exhausted and more shaken than when he woke up from his latest, haunting nightmare, he tries to distract himself by setting the table while Hannibal finishes up in his work in the kitchen.

Most of the meal is spent in silence—an awkward, uncomfortable silence for Will who feels something nagging at him just beyond the edge of awareness. For his part, Hannibal seems practically serene as he devours the breakfast in front of him.

But then the silence is interrupted by the sound of tires, distant but drawing nearer.

At the same moment that the thought forms in Will's head, Hannibal gives voice to it. “That must be Jack Crawford. Perhaps your killer has struck again.”  
  
“He’s not _my_ killer—and maybe you shouldn’t be standing in the middle of the living room when Jack Crawford arrives?”  
  
“I’ll be in the kitchen cleaning up. I trust you’ll do Jack the discourtesy of not inviting him inside.”  
  
“I don’t suppose this is a social call, not at this hour.”  
  
“No, I don’t suppose it is.”

And then there’s a knock at the door.

After making sure Hannibal has moved out of sight, Will grabs his robe and reaches for the door handle, before remembering to disengage the alarm.

When he does open the door—not all the way, just enough—he’s unable to think of something suitably casual to say, but fortunately Jack isn't in the mood for pleasantries.

“There’s been another killing. Might be connected to the last two. I’m on my way over there now, and so are you.”

Knowing better than to disagree when Jack is in this frame of mind, Will merely says, “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

And then he quickly shuts the door before Jack can even consider following him inside.

 

 

An hour later, Jack and Will arrive at their destination. A clearing in the middle of a wooded area, already swarming with officers—local police, FBI—all gathered around a fancy sports car, with a corpse in the driver’s seat. 

As Will and Jack make their way closer to the crime scene, Will says, “A lot of people here for a single murder.”  
  
“He was a local politician, and this is the third one.”

“So it’s definitely connected to the other two cases?”  
  
“Seems likely, although I was hoping _you_ could confirm that for me.”  
  
When they reach the yellow tape, Jack says, “I’ll tell the other guys to stand down for a bit, let you have some space.”  
  
Will nods in thanks.

As everyone clears out except for Price and Zeller, Jack briefs Will on the crime.

“The man was reported missing by his personal secretary yesterday after he didn’t show up for work.”  
  
“No family or friends noticed his absence?”  
  
Jack shakes his head, “No wife, no kids, no immediate family in the area.”  
  
Will adds, with a hint of sarcasm, “And apparently no friends.” 

Jack shoots him an _I’m not amused_ look, so Will quickly asks his next question.

“Was he abducted from his home?”  
  
“As soon as they received the missing persons report, police went over there but there were no signs of a break in or forced entry. According to his secretary, he was last seen at a fundraising event two days ago, not far from here. We’re checking security camera footage of the area to see if any of this was caught on tape.”

“You won’t find anything.” 

Jack raises his eyebrows. “How can you be sure of that?”  
  
“This killer is careful. Each of these murders has been purposeful and methodical. He knew when to commit the crimes and how to do it without anyone seeing him.” 

Will slowly circles the vehicle. “Was this the victim’s car?”  
  
Jack nods in confirmation.  
  
“Who found him?”  
  
Price interjects, “A couple, going for a romantic hike in the woods.”  
  
Zeller adds, “Kind of a mood killer.”

Blocking out their banter, Will moves closer to the body, his attention caught by the shine of metal—coins, buried in both sockets where the man’s eyes should be.  
  
Jack watches Will’s movements from a few feet back and says, “The killer removed his eyes before putting the coins there.”  
  
Price breaks in. “Coins over the eyes was a Roman tradition. It’s supposed to help the dead make their way to the underworld.”  
  
Looking at him skeptically, Zeller says, “Since when are you an expert on Roman history?”  
  
Before Price can retort, Will says, “Those aren’t coins to help him pass safely into the afterlife. They're a rebuke. He allowed his greed to make him blind.”

No one responds to Will’s conclusion. Instead, Price gestures to the abdominal captivity. “Most of his internal organs are gone. The killer filled in the abdominal cavity with coins and dollar bills.”

Zeller adds, "And he stitched the man's mouth shut."

Jack wonders aloud, “Why remove all the organs? Why stuff him like a piggy bank only to set the whole thing on fire?”  
  
“This killer sees himself as judge, jury, and executioner. Maybe this man accepted money for his silence.”

Will leans over to examine the charred interior of the car. “The fire damage seems pretty limited, considering.”

Price explains, “Mother nature intervened.”

And Zeller elaborates, “A storm came through before the fire could burn itself out.”

Jack looks to Will. “So this killer is careful enough not to get caught on CC TV, but he doesn’t bother to check the rain forecast?”  
  
Will considers this, for a moment. “His ends are more important than the spectacle.”  
  
Following Will’s train of thought, Jack says, “He cared less about how this man died than that he died.”

Zeller adds, “The man was dead before the killer lit the fire.”

When it’s clear that Will has no more questions to ask, Jack says, “We’ll leave you to it. Come find us when you’re done.”

 

 

As the others retreat back to the line of FBI vehicles, Will closes his eyes and lets the pendulum swing. 

“I sit in the passenger seat of a parked car, a gun in my lap, partially concealed. Anyone passing by would see nothing amiss.”

“But the man in the driver’s seat next to me knows. He understands—the Angel of Death has come for him.”

“I lean over, whisper into his ear—

 _If you scream for help, if you do anything other than what I tell you to do, I’ll shoot._  
  
_Now drive._

“I tell him where to go and he obeys. He's too afraid to do anything else.”  
  
"When we reach our destination, I take the keys out of the ignition, throwing them far out of reach."  
  
“I pull out a pair of handcuffs, and before he realizes what’s happening, I’ve handcuffed his wrists to the steering wheel.” 

“I get out of the car, and pull back the top of the convertible. This man will be tried before the heavens.”

_A public servant is what you call yourself. But again and again you’ve abdicated your duties to those you were sworn to serve. All you care about is wealth and power._

_Thomas Miller, I sentence you to die._  
  
“And then, before he can say a word, my hands wrap around his head, and snap his neck.”  
  
“The rest of my work will be posthumous. I didn’t need him to suffer, only to die.” 

“This is my design.”

“Quickly and efficiently I do my bloody work, carving into him, tearing out flesh.”

"Where he once had eyes, now there is only emptiness, which I quickly fill with tangible reminders of his sins. I sew his mouth shut—in death, he will go silent, just as he did in life.” 

“Once I’ve set the stage, I pour gasoline along the interior of the car, light a match, and then I walk away.” 

 _“It’s almost as if Hannibal Lecter himself has risen from the dead.”_  
  
That voice, those words, startle Will out of his trance. As he takes several fast, shaky breaths, he turns around to see the unwelcome visage of Freddie Lounds approaching.

As she ducks under the crime scene tape, Freddie adds, “Assuming Hannibal is in fact dead.”

“Trust me, he is.”  
  
“I’m curious, how was it?”  
  
“How was what?”  
  
“Running off with your murder husband.”

Will glares back at her, but says nothing.  
  
“No response? Then I’ll just make up my own.”  
  
“Don’t you always?”  
  
Nimbly changing the subject, Freddie asks, “So you’re sure he’s dead?”  
  
“I assume you already took your time examining the crime scene. You don’t need me to answer that for you.“  
  
“I meant Hannibal Lecter.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“Shame. It’s been so quiet around here lately, since the two of you ran off together.”  
  
“You call this quiet?”  
  
“This is the most excitement we’ve had in years.”

Freddie pauses, and looks off into the distance, as if lost in thought.

“Interesting coincidence. You return from the dead, and we have our most ostentatious serial killing since—well, since you ran off with Hannibal Lecter.”

With a shrug, she adds, “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great for business, but it does make you wonder.”

When Will remains resolutely silent, Freddie holds out a card and says, “Call me.”

“And why would I do that?”  
  
“To catch up, unburden yourself, get to work on that life story you promised me.”

Ignoring the card held out in front of him, Will says, “Goodbye, Freddie,” and then makes his way back to Jack’s car. ~~~~

The entire drive home, he can’t get Freddie’s words out of his head.

_Hannibal himself_

_Risen from the dead_

By the time Jack drops him off in Wolf Trap, his skin is crawling with a sense of unease, and so when Hannibal inquires idly about the investigation, Will can’t stop himself from asking— 

“Did you kill this man?”  
  
Hannibal is unfazed by the accusation. “If you're referring to the murder that just occurred, how could I? You’ve gone to great lengths to ensure I’m unable to leave this house.”  
  
Will can’t argue with the truth behind those words, but it doesn’t stop him from changing the code to the alarm when Hannibal is in the other room.

And later that evening, while Hannibal is in the shower and therefore out of sight, Will slips into the spare bedroom—Hannibal’s bedroom.

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, what he expects to find, if he expects to find anything, but then, half hidden under one of Hannibal’s sketch pads, he finds a newspaper, with a picture of a man who is instantly familiar. 

He scans the article, a typical fluff piece about a local politician—Thomas Miller, the man in the field.

As he stares at the image in front of him, another memory stirs, one from another time, another life.

_A man in a suit, sitting across from a police officer, laughing and joking, seemingly oblivious to the young life they had just ruined._

He’s startled out of his thoughts by Hannibal’s voice.

“Rather rude to come in here and search through my things. If you wanted to borrow reading material, you only needed to ask. ” 

Will turns around abruptly and shoves the paper at Hannibal. “Why do you have this?”  
  
“I was curious about this case of yours. Thought I might do some digging of my own.”  
  
“How would you even know where to start?”  
  
“You have shared some details of the case with me.”  
  
“Not enough.”

Nonchalantly, Hannibal replies, “I may have also picked up one or two things from reading the case file.”

At Will’s angry glare, Hannibal says, “If you didn’t want me to read it, perhaps you should have hid it better.”

“It was in my dresser—in my underwear drawer.”

“Yes.”  
  
“Why were you going through my things?”  
  
Hannibal shrugs. “I wanted to read more about the case. Why were you searching my room?”  
  
Will responds with a question of his own. “Did you kill Thomas Miller?”  
  
“You already asked me that, and I gave you my answer.”  
  
“That was before I found this.” Will holds up the newspaper that is crumpled in his fist. His whole body is trembling with barely contained rage and fear. 

“Hardly compelling evidence.”  
  
Hannibal studies Will closely, before adding “If you’re so sure I committed these crimes, why not turn me over to Jack?”  
  
“I can’t. You know I can’t.”  
  
“Then it appears we are at an impasse.”  
  
Will wants to argue—he wants to reach over and wrap his hands around Hannibal’s throat—but instead, he throws the newspaper at Hannibal’s feet and walks away.

That night, he tries to sleep, but every time he closes his eyes and begins to drift off, he thinks he hears the sounds of Hannibal stirring, and immediately he jolts awake once more. Eventually, after many hours of tossing and turning, he finally slips into a restless sleep.

_He’s in a field, staring at the dead man in the car, a match in his hand, the small flame illuminating the blood on his hands._

_There's a sound of footsteps approaching, and when he turns around, he sees the stag, huge, looming over him, so dark it blends into the night sky._

_He throws the match at the creature, and the tiny flame immediately grows into a blaze, engulfing the Stag in flames, and Will stands there, paralyzed, watching it burn, until the only thing that remains visible is its head. The dark, fathomless eyes stare at Will, and he can't look away, as a loud, inhuman scream rings in his ears—_  

 

Will opens his eyes. He’s lying in bed, drenched in sweat, with the remnants of a scream still lodged in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, even if it took a ridiculously long time for me to post it. The good news is that the next chapter is almost done! (Originally I had planned on combining these two chapters but chapter 6 was getting a bit long, so I decided to split them up). Chapter 7 is tentatively titled, “Hawks on a Wire.”
> 
> If you have a moment, please leave a comment! I’m curious to hear what you guys think of the story so far :)
> 
> P.S. If any of you also follow my other Hannibal WIP, "Paradiso," I promise that story has not been abandoned. In fact, I've been working on finishing off the latest chapter at the same times as this one, so the next installment should be posted soon.
> 
> Edit: Forgot to mention that I have a Hannibal-related tumblr. I always post to my tumblr when I've updated my Hannibal fanfics, so it's one way to hear about updates, especially if you don't have an AO3 account: [artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com](http://artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com)


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